Sometimes I make my life a story, narrating trivial happenings around me in poetry. The man swaggered towards the produce section and clutched the spinach as if it were some golden treasure. Something like that. That's not really literary though. I had intentionally packed light today, but I still feel as if I'm being weighed down, as if were I not moving I would begin to sink into the ground, through the cracked concrete crossing. That's not really literary though.